


The Lonely Detective (Ch9)

by CarmillaCarmine



Series: The Memoirs of Dr. John H. Watson [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Asperger's Sherlock Holmes, Bored Sherlock Holmes, Bottom John Watson, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Horny Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Masturbation, Sex Toys, Shameless Smut, Smut, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, Top Sherlock, they miss each other so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 11:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16639088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine/pseuds/CarmillaCarmine
Summary: John leaves to attend a funeral and they both find out how much they miss each other's company. Sex and fluff.





	The Lonely Detective (Ch9)

**Author's Note:**

> If you're reading this story as a standalone: John and Sherlock have been in a sexual relationship since after ASiB but haven't announced it to the public. The rest is as in the show.
> 
> Special thanks to my beta @MsScarlet!

 

 

“Joooohn, you’re not supposed to leave me,” Sherlock knew he sounded like a 3-year-old needing a nap but he didn’t care. He was bored out of his mind. There had been an interesting case involving a missing jewel two days ago but he had solved it in half a day and there hadn’t been anything stimulating to do since then. On top of all that, John was gone and they were reduced to video calling to catch up. Sherlock feared that John called only to make sure Sherlock was not having a romance with a 7 percent solution. He hoped it was more but he didn’t like to dwell on the odds.  

“I didn’t leave you. I went to attend a family funeral,” John said matter-of-factly but a faint trace of annoyance was creeping to the surface of his voice. “You should be placated, you just solved a case with me a few days ago!” 

“Oh that,” Sherlock said flippantly. “What did you name that one?” 

“The Copper Breeches,” John said rather proudly. 

“Atrocious!” Sherlock exclaimed, but then waved a hand in dismissal as if storing that case far away in his mind and moving on. “But you're needed here again. The country needs you,”  _I need you._  Sherlock tried to sound convincing, looking straight at his blogger through the camera of his laptop. 

“A missing jewel is hardly a national matter,” John answered. Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock thought, he wouldn’t tell John about the fact that he already solved that one, because there was a faint possibility that an unsolved case might lure John back home faster. 

“It is! It’s of the utmost importance. You have to fly back.” 

“No, Sherlock. I have to be here. It’s my aunt’s funeral and it’s a courtesy I need to observe.” John responded with a soldierly nod of his head, something which Sherlock usually appreciated but didn’t in this particular instance. 

“None of them extended any courtesy towards you when you had come back from the war,” Sherlock muttered.  

John must have known Sherlock was right. Sherlock had no idea how John could go and do the smiling and polite nodding around people who clearly had never cared about him. But John was insistent about going and even more so about Sherlock staying put in London. Sherlock was willing to travel with John to Dublin for what they call “emotional support”, or at least he offered it but had been met with a stern refusal from John.  

“At least I call you and don’t disappear without a word for days on end like some people,” John gave Sherlock a meaningful look which Sherlock pretended to misunderstand. “I mean you.” 

“I…” Sherlock thought over what he had heard, “…I do that,” Sherlock realized that fact as he said the words out loud. Was that how John had felt every time Sherlock had left? He put that thought in an open room in his mind palace to analyse later. “Why is Harry not there?” Sherlock asked, promptly changing the subject. 

“How did you…? Well no, she’s not here. She’s not welcome…” John swallowed hard and his face fell, brow slightly furrowed and gaze downturned. “Our family is,-” 

“Are you talking with your girlfriend, John?” The doctor’s words were interrupted and he paled at the sound of an elderly woman’s voice. “We’d love to meet her, even if just through your computer,” continued the voice from behind John followed by a creak of the door opening.  

“I need to go,” John said abruptly, turning towards the door as he started closing the laptop. Then the screen went dark for Sherlock.  

“John?” He had just hung up. What very non-John behaviour, Sherlock observed.  John had always been the one to point out Sherlock’s rude conduct and now he had been the one behaving in such an appalling manner. Yes, it definitely sounded like one of those inappropriate things to do that John would disapprove of. What had John’s aunt said about a girlfriend? John didn’t have a girlfriend. 

Sherlock felt confused. He didn’t give a rat’s arse about meeting the people who never showed interest in John unless they needed something from him, but Sherlock still felt hurt that John had hidden him from his family. It was a similarly unpleasant feeling to what he so often felt when still at school and then university when colleagues pretended that he wasn’t there or they didn’t respond when he greeted them. He quickly stopped greeting people and never got into the habit of doing it again. Sherlock went over the ending of the conversation with John again and came to the conclusion that John was ashamed of him.  

John cares what people say about him, he even cares what they say about Sherlock. Based on the situation that had just occurred, it seemed fairly obvious that John didn’t want to risk telling his family that he was getting buggered by someone of the same sex. Clearly that’s why Harry was not welcome in the family ranks.  

‘There’s all sorts of gossip in the press,’ the pitiful journalist had told him. That must be what John was constantly afraid of. Ashamed of. John must be ashamed to admit to the outside world that they were more than flatmates, more than friends. Sherlock would have to make sure to direct the talk about him and John being together in such a way to avoid John being embarrassed about it. 

Sherlock rubbed his sternum, the muscle behind it feeling constricted to the point of pain. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply. Exhaled slowly. He was fine. He was ready to get dressed and look for another case. He closed the laptop and headed, stark naked, to the bathroom.  

 --- 

“You lied to me about the case. You’d already solved it when I called you this morning,” John said with amusement. 

“I see the funeral went well,” Sherlock said, deliberately avoiding that particular subject. 

“As far as funerals go,” John said dismissively with a slight shrug of his shoulder. “And you’ve been playing,” John touched his own neck to indicate that he had noticed the violin hickey on Sherlock’s neck, a sign indicating hours spent playing.  

“Composing,” Sherlock elaborated touching the blemish on his skin involuntarily. 

“Is your muse demanding today? What does she say?” 

“He.” 

“Pardon?” 

Sherlock turned to look at something that was beyond John’s field of vision to avoid his gaze. Sherlock composed for John. He always had, since the day they had met.  

The first time Sherlock composed with John in mind was the day they chased a cabbie through the streets and over the roofs of London. The thrill of the chase, the chill in the air and the stars above them were all included in that composition.  It was a lively piece and the first of many.  

A few weeks into their flatmate arrangement, Sherlock stopped an experiment in the kitchen to check on John who had fallen quiet. Even the slow tapping on the laptop keyboard had stopped. He found John dozing on the couch in a sitting position. A small smile adorning his beautiful lips, his head resting on the back of the sofa, and his hair still slightly damp from the shower he had taken ten minutes before. The laptop was still on John’s lap but his hands were slack at his sides. Those strong hands, calloused by war, that John had used both to save and kill people.  

Sherlock tiptoed slowly closer to his flatmate, his breath catching at the peaceful, beautiful sight in front of him. John seemed unreal to Sherlock at times. As if he was a figment of his imagination, because no one could be so luminous and alluring while at the same time emanating confidence even in his sleep. Sherlock had the uncanny desire to touch John then, to feel the warmth of his cheeks while he slept, to acquire the tactile knowledge of the softness of John’s hair...  

As gently as he could, Sherlock removed the laptop from the sleeping man’s lap and placed it on the coffee table. After one more glance at his partner in crime-solving, Sherlock knew he must compose a piece encompassing John’s essence. That piece had many variations by now, each one expressing one of many of John’s humours, behaviours and routines.   

John had been his muse for this whole time and was not even aware of it. Good. Sherlock didn’t want to put pressure on John. His flatmate would feel obligated or worse, embarrassed about it. It was easier not to give John any more things he had to hide from his family and friends. No one could see them now though. 

“Sherlock? Where are you in your head again? Hello?” 

“John?” Sherlock’s mind was sucked out of his musings and back to reality. “I need you to do something,” Sherlock’s voice reflected the thoughts he had the first time he wanted to feel John’s flesh under his fingertips.  

“Yes, anything,” John responded quickly. Oh, how Sherlock enjoyed the readiness and acceptance with which John responded to his commands. 

“I want you to touch yourself.” 

“What?!” John said rather too loudly then lowered his voice to a whisper after a fast glance towards the door. “What? Now?” 

“Yes. You can lock the door if that would make you more comfortable,” Sherlock instructed and John obeyed wordlessly. There was no shadow of hesitation in his movements as he stood, turned the brass key in the old wooden door to the guest room he was staying in, and came back to sit on the bed. He awaited further instructions as he looked at Sherlock through the camera, across the satellites that connected them now. It was better than nothing. 

“What do you want me to do?” John asked, his pupils already dilating, his lips slightly open. John had the habit of taking shallow breaths through his mouth when he was aroused. That resulted in his lips drying and led to a magnificent flick of his tongue over his lower lip. Sherlock had adored that small involuntary tic of John’s since the memorable first evening at Angelo’s. They were sitting at a small table; John’s face was illuminated by the flicker of candlelight and the prospect of catching a killer was ahead of them. 

“Strip.” Sherlock ordered. John reacted as if had been touched by a cattle prod. He stripped his jumper off over his head in a split second. “Slower, slower” Sherlock added. He wanted to enjoy the view. 

John’s fingers trembled slightly as he unbuttoned his shirt. Sherlock knew John wasn’t patient in moments like that. He liked his satisfaction to come fast, neatly and without delay. Sherlock had heard John’s shower routine often enough to deduce that detail. That knowledge made Sherlock revel all the more in making John undress slowly, seeing him squirm with anticipation. As much as he would love to see John naked, delaying of the process would make John more eager, more aroused and needier. Sherlock loved it when John was needy. He loved the pleading sounds he made, the gasps and the softly spoken blasphemies.  

“Take two steps back. I want to see you,” Sherlock could hear his voice getting deeper and feel the front of his trousers getting tighter as John unbuttoned his shirt and let it slide to the ground. That simple action showed how engaged in the process John was, as he normally would fold the shirt and put it neatly away. Sherlock’s eyes roamed over John’s exposed flesh, his strong arms and the bullet scar which was barely visible through the camera but Sherlock knew was there. John’s pecs flexed as he moved.  

He was perfect.  

From his eyes, which were shining with wit and desire, his lips, on the verge of releasing a moan, his neck, begging to be kissed and squeezed, to his collarbones, pecs and abdomen, John was spectacular. There were days Sherlock couldn’t believe John was still around, let alone allowing Sherlock to command that magnificent body of his. 

“Touch your body, John. It deserves to be caressed,” Sherlock dictated and John slid his hands over his abdomen slowly until he reached his jeans and started unbuttoning them.  

Sherlock yearned to feel John under his own hands, yet this night watching John would have to do. The view of his blogger undressing for him in real time was better than any porn imaginable. John’s lips were slightly parted as he slid his jeans off and stepped out of them. Sherlock could see the outline of John’s erection through his boxer-briefs along with a tiny wet spot of precome in front of them. John slid his palm over his cock to rearrange it, then looking at Sherlock cupped his balls. 

 “Tease,” Sherlock murmured, so proud of how confident John was becoming when they were together behind closed doors. “Pinch your nipple, John. Imagine my teeth are grazing your flesh and biting your nipples,” Sherlock watched intently as John’s finger and thumb took one nipple and squeezed making his lips open in a silent gasp. “Harder,” ordered Sherlock, “Use your nails.” John obliged and this time his back arched and eyes closed briefly before opening again to focus on Sherlock through the screen. “Remove your underwear, I want to see how much you want this.” 

“Oh God, Sherlock... if you were here...” 

“I know. But I’m not,” Sherlock chose to ignore the fact that it was John who had insisted Sherlock stayed behind. “Your hands are my hands today and I will tell you what they will do.” 

John removed the last remaining piece of fabric and straightened, his left hand rubbing his neck in a nervous gesture as he stood stark naked in front of the camera. 

“David,” Sherlock breathed the name and had to clarify quickly, seeing John’s confused and hurt stare. “You look like Michelangelo’s David. A fighter just before battle.” 

“I think you’re losing your sight with age,” John scoffed. 

“Shhh,” Sherlock was mesmerized by the sight before him. He slid his palms over his thighs and gripped his knees. He didn’t want to touch himself for fear of distraction. He didn’t want to lose a single moment of the action that was about to ensue. 

“At least my dick is bigger,” John said, and they both chuckled. John was sassy when he was nervous which made him all the more attractive. 

Sherlock didn’t give him enough credit for his wit, but he wasn’t in the habit of handing out praise. He should learn for John, because his blogger should be aware of how Sherlock saw him. That he valued John’s intelligence, wit and the ability to handle any difficult situation thrown his way.  

John should be aware of how Sherlock snuck glances at John’s body as often as he could. How he observed the curve of his jaw when John ground his teeth in anger, the flattening of John’s lips when he was annoyed, the exasperated sighs which made Sherlock think of all the dirty things he could do to John only to hear a different kind of sigh.  

Then there was the way John moved, his military gait so agile, always able to keep up. John’s arse when he reached for something from the bottom cupboard and his jeans became tighter. All those moments Sherlock had to train himself not to react, not to go over to John and take him on the floor or on the kitchen table. Looking at John and not touching him, was a skill that Sherlock had mastered to perfection. He had touched himself, but that was another matter. Just remembering that, he had to rearrange his erection. 

“There’s a present for you at the bottom of your suitcase,” Sherlock said and John gave him the oh-no-you-didn't look he had perfected so well. John rummaged in the suitcase until he found the gift. He sat on the edge of the bed with it, next to the laptop, and inspected the box with the words “Fleshlight Ice” on it. 

“I hope you like it, there are more textures to choose from,-” 

“Sherlock!” John tried to interrupt the description but Sherlock paid no attention. 

“The mouth-shaped attachment seemed the most appropriate for you but there are,-” 

“Ohmygod just stop...” John buried his face in his hands but it was still clearly visible how red he became. Even his ears looked aflame to Sherlock. 

“Open it and lay down so I can see you,” Sherlock instructed. 

John took the sex toy out of the box and inspected it. Sherlock’s view of the room shook as John laid down next to the laptop on the bed and adjusted the screen.  

“Cup your balls with your left hand...that’s it. And tease your nipple with the right,” John obliged still looking at the screen. “Now pinch it...harder,” at John’s sharp intake of breath, Sherlock knew John liked it more than he would care to admit.  

“There’s lube in the box. Use it. Now grip your cock and move your hand...slower. Yes, good.” Sherlock’s gravelly voice betrayed how aroused he was. 

“Take the gift and put it to use.” 

John squirted more lube on his cock and spread it with slow movements. He stopped to pick up the fleshlight, squirt some extra lube inside and position the device. He released a loud groan of pleasure as he slid himself inside. 

The flashlight-sized device was transparent in its mid-section, allowing for more viewing pleasure. Sherlock could see John’s dick fitting snugly inside.  

“Turn it on,” Sherlock instructed and John followed the instructions. 

“Oh God, Sherlock. Ohhhh fuck...” John couldn’t contain his expletives as he experienced the suction that the device delivered. 

“I knew, you’d like it. Play with it, John. Lay on your back. Yes, I can see you perfectly well like this.”  

“Use your other hand to finger yourself.” John’s still lubricated hand travelled to his backside. He massaged the entrance before he slid a finger inside, his eyes locking on the screen. Sherlock felt the hot gaze and released a breath of frustrated arousal at the inability to get closer to the god-like man. John’s bent legs fell open even wider as he lifted his hips and slid the second finger inside. Sherlock could see from John’s flushed face that he hadn’t expected video sex to feel this good.  

John was very responsive to sexual stimuli which made looking at him in the throes of pleasure not dissimilar to watching the highest-praised erotic art come to life. It also made it easier for Sherlock to discern what John liked and wanted. His open, unguarded expression was a lot easier to dissect and understand than the public mask he wore on a daily basis. With a lot of attention Sherlock could recognize what was behind that as well and determine what John needed, but only because John was so familiar to him now. 

“Can you reach your prostate? Massage it. Imagine it’s me doing it to you.” John’s lewd gasp indicated he had found his prostate in expert time; he was a doctor after all. But it was Sherlock’s voice that made John arch on the bed. “Those are my fingers inside you and this is my mouth sucking you off, John.” The blogger’s eyes became hazy, while both of his hands were busy delivering pleasure. 

“Look at me, John,” The doctor did as he was told, his eyes refocusing on the image of Sherlock’s face on the screen. “You’re the most erotic being. Are you imagining me sucking you?” 

“Yes,” John gasped. “Always.” 

“Good. I do too. Especially when you’re masturbating in the shower and you think that I cannot hear you. And lately I’ve heard you call my name when you came.” 

“Always,” was the only thing John could think to say in the heat of the moment, the movements of his hands picking up the pace. 

Sherlock had kept himself from stroking his own erection through the fabric of his trousers throughout the show, but now he was more than ready to touch himself. 

Watching John writhing on the bed, Sherlock quickly undid his belt and fly, and his hand wrapped around his cock. He groaned. keeping his eyes on John, who increased the motion of his new device at the sound. Sherlock spared a glance at John’s body, glorious in its sexual abandon, but his full attention fell on John’s face.  

John’s eyes tried to keep contact with Sherlock’s, but they were unfocused with pleasure, his lips parted in barely audible gasps of Sherlock’s name, his cheeks flushed with the heat of arousal. Sherlock had to blink several times to make sure what he was looking at was real. How could anyone be so beautiful, so completely undone and exquisite in their ecstasy? He couldn’t voice his thoughts though. He wasn’t sure if it was for fear of rejection, worry about sounding emotional or something else entirely. But he had to make sure John knew how he affected him.    
 

“You make me lose control of my own body, John. I’ll have you underneath me the moment you come back, I can promise you that.” Sherlock announced, his voice low, gravelly and animalistic as he kept stroking himself.  

“Yes, Sherlock, please,” John gasped. “Talk to me. I need to hear your voice. It does things to me, you know. Just your voice makes me... oh Sherlock...” 

“I’m close now and so are you. Come for me John. Let it all go and come for me.” 

They were both reduced to uttering a series of guttural noises as they reached orgasm together, so close yet so far apart. And wasn’t that the best metaphor for the reality of their relationship?  

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock whispered in between shallow panting breaths. He closed his eyes as he stored the whole experience in a special place in his mind palace, an easily accessible place so he could come back to this moment whenever he needed. So he could replay in his mind the moment John came, moaning “Sherlock” as he touched his own body for their mutual pleasure.     
 

\--- 

 

Sherlock was busying himself in his makeshift lab in the kitchen when he heard John’s steps on the stairs. His gait was unmistakable, sure but not heavy. He never avoided the creaking boards on the stairs, as if purposefully letting Sherlock know he was coming.    
 

John opened the door to the kitchen, suitcase in hand, and it felt as if an invisible weight was lifted off Sherlock’s sternum. John was home. Sherlock knew that his flight was on time as he checked online to make sure he landed safely. He predicted John would be starved even after the short flight and would only snack on the airport, planning to order takeaway once he got home. 

“Hungry?” Sherlock asked in lieu of greeting only briefly looking up from his microscope. 

“Starving,” came the quick reply as John parked his suitcase in the doorway. 

“There’s some Chinese on the countertop.” 

“Perfect.” John looked into the paper bag. “This isn’t leftover...” he looked at Sherlock who was still unmoving until he felt a soft kiss on the nape of his neck. “Thank you for ordering my favourite.”  

Sherlock felt his cheeks flush as he muttered, “You’re welcome.” 

“I need to shower first. Wash the smell of airplane and stressed people off of me.” 

Sherlock enjoyed the familiar sounds of John in the shower. Everything was returning to normal. Once he had gotten familiar with their routine in the house, he had refused to change it. Knowing or being able to predict what would happen around him made him feel more comfortable and he detested change in those routines.   
He was opposed to inviting new people to the flat, getting new furniture, moving things out of place, or introducing new smells to the flat to name just a few examples. Once John bought a different cologne by mistake but he still used it. It drove Sherlock insane for several days before he pretended to break it in the sink and replaced it with the one that suited John best.   

John, wrapped in a dressing gown, sat in front of Sherlock at the table, squeezing himself into the tiny corner of the table that wasn’t cluttered with Sherlock’s portable lab equipment. John ate his food while stealing glances at Sherlock until the detective couldn’t take it anymore and stared back.     
   
Sherlock didn’t want John to see how much he had missed him for the few days he had been gone. He didn’t want John to see the longing in his eyes, because little by little he was opening himself to John, showing him what he was really thinking as opposed to showing him what he wanted him to see. He had done that with everyone else for most of his life and certainly for all his adult life. People didn’t care for him so he didn't want them to see him the way he really was inside. They even bought the sociopath tale because it was convenient and easy to accept. It provided a great cover for his erratic behaviour. The truth was, Sherlock could hide his emotions very well but he wasn’t able leash them at all times. He wasn’t always in charge during his outbursts, and he didn’t enjoy days on the couch when he couldn’t make himself get up and be productive.  

The only person who didn’t judge Sherlock for being himself was sitting on the other side of the table; the impossibly handsome, smart man who accepted him. There were days when Sherlock feared John would leave him, move out, move on with his life without Sherlock. He feared that he might not survive that happening. Sherlock had to enjoy every day that he had with John. Cherish his wit, his mind, and his body every chance he got. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” John asked, putting his chopsticks back in the empty box and wiping his face with a napkin. 

“Like what?” Sherlock stood up and rounded the table to stand behind John. 

“Like you...” John’s voice trailed away as Sherlock bent down, and his lips brushed the soft spot behind John’s ear and then his neck, the scent of shampoo and shaving cream inviting Sherlock to explore more thoroughly “...want to eat me.”    
   
“Maybe I do.” Sherlock looked at John then, his eyes aflame but his expression serious. “I have to have you. Now. Not slowly or gently. Just now.” With that, Sherlock reached for John’s hand to pull him up, around, and close to his chest.     
   
Sherlock’s lips frantically kissed John’s jawline and neck as his hands pushed his flatmate’s dressing gown to the sides so that his lips could reach more flesh. “I need you, John. I need to feel that you’re here. That you’re back with me.”  

   
Sherlock stopped his kissing frenzy and took both of John’s hands placing one on his shoulder and stretching the other to create a ballroom dance position.  

“Sherlock? What on Earth are you doing?”  

“Shh,” Sherlock waltzed John through the sitting room to the couch, Strauss’s “The Blue Danube” playing in his head as he hummed it softly. John’s feet awkwardly stepping during the turning made the movements difficult but they managed to reach their destination. Even John’s two left feet couldn’t ruin this moment.  

Once they stopped, Sherlock placed a chaste kiss on John’s cheek and smiled. He was rewarded by a radiant, albeit slightly confused smile from his dance partner.  

Sherlock stripped John of his completely unnecessary robe with swift movements, and pushed him backwards onto the sitting room sofa. Then he promptly removed his own attire, leaving his shirt, trousers and pants scattered on the floor.  

All John could do was sit and hold onto the back of the sofa behind his head. Sherlock put one foot next to John’s hip making his erection hover over John’s mouth.  

“I want you to suck my cock, John. Show me how much you missed me.” Sherlock realised he was channelling his own feelings but he could just hope John missed him even a fraction as much.  

John’s mouth lifted in a smile before it opened eagerly for Sherlock to slide his cock inside. “Hollow your cheeks, John,” Sherlock breathed. “Oh that’s it,” Sherlock’s hand was in John’s hair, the other guiding his cock in and out of John’s mouth. Sherlock was aflame with need. He had imagined John like this for the past few days and now that it was happening, he could barely prevent himself from spilling into John’s talented mouth instantly. 

John’s hands, so avid for touch, slid upwards on Sherlock’s thighs but just a moment later Sherlock took hold of them. Sherlock’s scarf had been laying on the back of the sofa before and Sherlock grabbed it to wrap John’s hands and secure them above John’s head without breaking their contact. He knew John liked being bound even if just for the idea of it as there was nothing to attach the scarf to.  

“Hold your hands there. No touching yet.” 

John’s eyes looked up to meet Sherlock’s in silent approval as his hips pushed upward, his neglected cock begging to be touched.  

- 

John swirled his tongue on the underside of Sherlock’s cock as it was moving out of his mouth eliciting a groan from Sherlock. “Do that again,” Sherlock pleaded, his breathing ragged as he kept one hand on the scarf binding John’s hands and the other gripping John’s short hair. 

John sucked in earnest. As Sherlock was in control and was only allowing part of his erection into John’s mouth, John focused on the tip, swirling his tongue and hollowing his cheeks as Sherlock pushed in and out. 

All of a sudden, John’s mouth was empty and Sherlock had disappeared into the kitchen. John’s dismay evaporated as Sherlock returned a few seconds later with a bottle of olive oil. At John’s lifted eyebrows he only said “No time.” 

Sherlock slicked his right palm with the oil and, with a look of determination on his face, moved over John again. This time he sealed their lips together. John let his legs fall apart wider to welcome Sherlock on top of him. John relished the hungry kiss, Sherlock’s intensity matching his own.  

God, how he missed this. The frenzy. The calculated chaos that came with being in Sherlock’s presence. He longed to be taken on a ride again by the exuberant genius of a man stealing his breath at the moment.  

John wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him to lay on the couch. It was too narrow for them to fit comfortably in their position and the miscalculation caused Sherlock to lose balance and drag John with him as he fell on the ground with a loud thump. The fall knocked the breath out of the detective and a rush of worry slid over John before it dissipated as Sherlock’s chuckle filled the room.  

John smiled and shook his head as he was lying on top, legs spread, his still bound hands over Sherlock’s head. Their laughter died down when their gazes met, John’s forehead so close to Sherlock’s it was an instinct to let them touch. Their breathing pattern matched as they stayed locked in a moment of unity before John initiated their turn so they could switch positions.  

“Ouch. Wait,” John winced as something bit into his back. Sherlock promptly removed the belt from behind John’s back and used the opportunity to reach for the olive oil laying on the floor next to them.  

Sherlock’s curls fell over his face as he hovered over John while his hands were getting slicked with the oil. Sherlock’s hand reached between their bodies and soon after, John felt a gentle touch between his scrotum and his puckered hole. Sherlock’s fingers were applying pressure on John’s perineum, massaging the soft skin, making John’s toes curl.  

Sherlock observed John, his eyes so intense that John was mesmerised looking into the pools of colour so beautiful, it felt like looking at the swirls of galaxies in the night sky.  

John’s lips opened in a plea for more. 

“Sherlock...” He couldn’t say more as he was silenced by a set of soft lips.  

Sherlock’s fingers increased the pressure before John felt them probing at his puckered hole, oiling his entrance. 

Two of Sherlock’s fingers teased until they slid inside one and then the other, spreading the makeshift lubricant. They were so long, Sherlock could reach John’s prostate easily. “Oh God Sherlock...” was all John could moan as he broke the kiss. He arched his hips upward needing more of Sherlock inside him. 

“John. I need to fuck you. Now.” Sherlock wasn’t a vulgar man but it was clear that the cool and collected man everyone else knew was gone. John relished the groaned words in his ear, Sherlock’s silky growl making John melt into a puddle of need.    
   
“Yes. Please.” John responded, punctuating his words with a thrust of his arse that drove Sherlock’s fingers even deeper. Sherlock’s pale digits wrapping around his own sizeable cock created a magnificent sight and John made a show of spreading his legs wider to entice the detective even more. After adding more oil Sherlock started pushing into John, slowly at first but, once the head was in, he thrust all the way, their bodies slapping together audibly.    
 

“John, you make me want to do unspeakable things,” Sherlock said as he withdrew halfway and thrust hard yet again. John held his bound hands above his head as Sherlock was delivering punishing thrusts into him.  

Sherlock’s hands were on John’s hips in a bruising grip and John was astonished how much he liked the pain of the possessive touch. he excitement of knowing he would see the branding in the mirror tomorrow.    
   
One of Sherlock’s hands let go of John’s hip and braced on the binding scarf. Letting his head fall forward so that their foreheads were touching, Sherlock kept thrusting into John with glorious ferocity. They chased the orgasm promising the peak of their pleasure. Sherlock’s other hand wrapped around John’s cock and started pumping to the rhythm of his thrusts. 

“You are mine, John Watson. Mine,” Sherlock said, as he bent even closer to kiss John again, the possessiveness and certainty with which the words were spoken penetrating John’s soul more than the flesh penetrating his body at that moment. His answer was automatic, the only words that came to mind.   
 

“Yes, Commander.” John whispered into Sherlock’s lips, hovering above his. He was rewarded with a hungry kiss. Sherlock liked that, John made a note somewhere in the back of his mind. Their tongues intertwined and John finally felt as if he was home again. As if for the last couple of days, he had been a lost man in the woods who finally saw a flicker of light of a homey fireplace in between the gloomy and dark expanse of the forest. He ran towards the hearth, towards peace and warmth, towards his friend. 

Towards Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s thrusts became faster, their bodies creating a rhythmic slapping sound. John felt his orgasm close, his body’s feverish need seeking the final satisfaction. 

The orgasm hit them both at the same time, and it was like falling from a cliff into the pool of flaming pleasure. It was hot, sticky and...  

“Amazing,” John gasped. 

“Yes, you are,” Sherlock panted in his ear, his breaths slowly getting steadier after the release. He sank down on top of John, the weight of him like a gravity blanket, sinking him into lethargy. After a few minutes, Sherlock moved so he could lie halfway on the floor on his side and halfway on John, pulling himself out of John in the process. Their arms locked around each other and John could feel his friend’s breath on the crook of his neck, his legs intertwining with John’s. Sherlock was holding him as if he didn’t want to let him go. John felt a soft kiss on his neck before Sherlock’s head was snuggled again, only the disarray of black curls visible from John’s point of view. Sherlock was only really touchy-feely during or after sex and it was something John always looked forward to.  

- 

 

They lay on the sofa for some time after their wild reunion before Sherlock lifted an exhausted John onto the couch to nap while he went to clean the remnants of their pleasure off of himself. John did the same when he awoke about an hour later. 

Now his flatmate looked like a wet dream as he came out of the shower with his dressing gown covering the t-shirt and pants, he wore. His legs were still naked and his wet hair suited him so well when slicked back. Sherlock, who had gotten up and attempted to do some work while John was in the shower, tried not to show his heated reaction to John as he entered the sitting room. He came over to Sherlock who reluctantly turned his eyes back to the laptop on his desk. Sherlock could never get enough of looking at John, and would much rather be touching him, and doing carnal things to him especially when he looked like he did now.    
   
“What are you doing?” John asked, as he glanced over Sherlock’s shoulder to what was on the screen of the laptop.    
   
“Shopping.”    
   
John raised his eyebrows in shock. “For a massager...wand?” John asked reading the description. “What the hell do you need that for?”    
   
Sherlock could barely contain the smile trying to overtake his whole face as he said “If I’m lucky, you’ll have a chance to find out”.   
 

**Author's Note:**

> Music:  
> [“Better Than I know Myself” by Adam Lambert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qNgSe8ww1cU)


End file.
